in the square
between the stands where pigeons crap
a rich old man
found a little black baby
who flew over the square with the pigeons
and landed in his pocket
ah
who will take this baby if I don’t
said the rich old man and took it to his
property in the north of Scotland

this hand is not peaceful
this hair is not silken
the head plays music all the time
because a monkey is conducting
what he wants exists no more
outside the storm is brewing
he would like to scream but doesn’t
because there’s no-one to hear

he came from the South
in these eyes is sadness
the heart burns with hot desires
but nothing is possible
no father, no mother
he breaks everything he touches
all that was sacred to him
has been thrown into the ghetto

Istambul in Greenland
Penguins with cameras
And Greenlandish Turks
With cold hands
Frozen moustaches
Riding on white bears
With burning swords in hand
Selling ice
Selling ice
And then a false son appears
Illegal heir to the throne
A gipsy woman
A chimney-sweep
And two crafty children
Who are calling the shots
Two crafty children